


Where the fuck is Malcolm Tucker?

by cobweb_diamond



Category: The Thick Of It
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobweb_diamond/pseuds/cobweb_diamond





	Where the fuck is Malcolm Tucker?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Malana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malana/gifts).



**08.47am, Malcolm Tucker’s office**

“Are you going to go home?” asked Sam, clearing away some of the night’s takeaway containers to make way for a new stack of files.

“No.”

“You should go home.”

“Probably, but I’m living life on the fucking edge. I am _rock and roll_.” Malcolm took his phone out and glared at it. “All right. Thanks, Sam. You can go now.”

“People are going to start arriving soon,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, and won’t their shitty morning seem better when they find out I’m not here? I’m taking the day off.”

Sam didn’t even raise an eyebrow. This was one of the many fine qualities that had kept her employed as Malcolm Tucker’s personal assistant for three years and counting. Another key attribute was the ability to not give a shit or feel any kind of human sympathy for whichever poor bastard was currently on the receiving end of a patented Malcolm Tucker bollocking. You didn't have to be a sadist to work here, but it helped.

“Have fun,” she said.

Pausing in the doorway, Malcolm’s grin was shark-like, which for Malcolm was practically _cheerful_. “I will.”

Well, there was no point bringing in the rest of today’s memos. Humming to herself, Sam shrugged on her winter coat and followed Malcolm out the door. She’d never been able to work out what brought on the random sick days, and had never asked. Maybe he’d booked himself onto the morning Eurostar to spend the next 24 hours neck-deep in French prostitutes. More likely he was going to do the same thing as her: sleep. Although unlike Malcolm, Sam didn’t sleep in a coffin lined with the wrinkled skins of philandering back-bench MPs.

 

**9.10am, outside**

The day off didn’t start till he switched off his phone, which was a vicious circle because it was past 9am and therefore people considered it acceptable to call him with all the stupid fucking problems they were too fucking stupid to solve by themselves, the stupid fucks.

“All right,” Malcolm snapped, his BlackBerry informing him that Used Condom was calling. He couldn’t remember if that was code for Daniel Penn – slimy and pointless – or Patricia Taundon -- name rhymed with condom. “My day off starts as soon as I get in the car, so unless the Prime Minister’s dead, which I would know because I put CCTV cameras in his bedroom, I am unlikely to give a shit.”

“Er – ” It was Penn. “I’ve been informed that Nicola Murray’s husband has given Radio 2 a soundbite on the theme of ‘Why I’m Disappointed In The National Health Service’.”

Why was it always fucking DoSaC? “At least it wasn’t the internet. The only people left listening to Radio 2 are Coldplay fans and Terry Wogan’s waxwork double at Madame Tussaud’s, and neither of them are eligible to vote due thanks to diminished fucking capacity. Call that bloke from DoHaL and tell him to deal with it.” Malcolm found a car and got in, motioning to the driver to wait a moment. “The one with a face like a deflated erection.”

“Morely?”

“No, you – actually, I probably should’ve clarified that. The one that looks like a deflated erection with a clump of pubes at the bottom that he incorrectly calls a beard. Call him. Get him on to the NHS and don’t fucking call me back.”

Malcolm hung up and turned to the driver. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Long day. 150 Piccadilly, please.”

 

**9.50am, Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship.**

“Nicola’s on the phone.”

“Why isn’t she _here_?” Forgetting she had the tray in one hand, Terri spilt tea down the middle of her shirt in a long, brown stain. “_Fuck_.”

Ollie tapped idly at his keyboard. “I think it’s something to do with her daughter?” he hazarded. He hadn’t been listening. Unless it was about policy, he tended to tune Nicola out. Her voice was too squawky, like a parrot or something. A macaw. How much David Attenbourgh was too much? It was on iPlayer all the bloody time... Ollie was going to end up being like Phil Twatface from the opposition but with animals instead of Star Wars character. The only difference was he didn’t have to live in the same house as Emma, thank fuck. He was well rid of that. Although the sex had been pretty good.

“Ollie._ Ollie_.”

“What?”

“Which extension?”

“Four?” he guessed.

Glenn poked his head round the partition between their desks, looking even more like a smug gay butler than usual. “Really, Ollie. Can’t you even answer a phone properly?”

“Fuck off,” said Ollie sulkily. “I’m not a fucking receptionist.”

“No, your general presentation certainly isn’t good enough for that.”

From across the office came the sound of Terri having an argument with Nicola in not-so-subtle stage-whispers.

“Well, can’t you leave her on her own for a couple of hours?” Terri hissed into the phone. “Isn’t she old enough? ... Nicola, if you don’t show up by twelve I’ll make Glenn read the press release. Or _Ollie_. No, I’m not going to do it. Because it’s not my bloody fault. Not that I think there’s anyone _specifically to blame_.” She stopped, and put down the phone. Nicola must have hung up.

“Good work,” said Ollie as she stomped past. “Accuse the boss of leaking to the Mail. Nice.”

If Terri was the kind of woman to give people the finger, she would have done so now. Satisfied, Ollie went back to trawling the internet for horse porn to email to his dick-cheese of a stepbrother.

 

**10.35am, 150 Piccadilly**

The receptionists at the Ritz went through a strenuous interview process to make sure they a) could look incredibly fucking posh all the time, and b) wouldn’t bat an eyelid when debutantes had meltdowns in the lobby. Still, Flossie Hangleton-Flibbertigibbet III or whatever her name was was starting to look a little a little strained as Malcolm, who’d arrived five minutes ago but hadn’t got round to getting out his credit card and signing in, continued to shout down the phone at Iain McIntire of the department of Being A Stupid Cunt.

“Roll him in front of a fucking camera anyway,” he said, wishing he could use his sleep deprived, red-eyed glare to its full effect instead of just yelling down the phone. "I don’t care if he’s two steps from a fucking coronary. As long as he _looks_ thin he’s still our healthy eating spokesman.”

“But shouldn’t the message be that physical appearance is a different thing from inner health?”

“The second choice is Jo Langley, who looks like she was raised on a diet of deep fried Mars Bars and Lucozade. There’s only two ways that can go and I’m the other way, got it? So no fucking jokes. Do it.”

The receptionist gave him a polished smile. “Mr Tucker?”

“Thanks,” said Malcolm, swiping his card. “Has my friend arrived yet?”

“No, sir. Would you like a notification call for that?”

“No, that’s fine.”

In the lift, Malcolm took off his scarf and coat and folded them over his arm. They were dropped on the floor of the room as soon as he got inside, his shoes toed off as well. Then he removed his phone and his BlackBerry from his pockets and with some ceremony, switched them off. After a moment’s hesitation he dug into the inner pocket of his coat and switched off his _other_ BlackBerry as well.

There was a large multipack of very low quality crisps and two six-packs of Tennants waiting for him on the pristine surface of the suite’s coffee table. This was the fucking life.

 

**11.45am, Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship**

“What do you mean he’s _taking the day off_?”

 

**12.01pm, Nicola Murray’s house**

“How am I supposed to know? It’s not as if I’m on a holiday-pleasantries basis with him! Thank god.”

“Well, if you’re not coming into work then we need to bring in the spin machine. It’s nothing right now but – ”

“Yes, yes, all right, I know.” Nicola pulled a face at her phone. It was bad enough having to spend the day feeling simultaneously sympathetic and incredibly annoyed with her sick teenage daughter. She didn’t want to have to speculate on the horrors of what Malcolm Tucker’s private life might entail. “Well, try Jamie McDonald.”

There was a sound of indrawn breath from Terri’s end of the line. “I don’t think it’s _quite_ that urgent.”

 

**1pm, Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship**

“Susie from the Mail just called. She wants a statement on the Radio 2 NHS thing.”

Terri looked at Glenn’s overly-innocent expression and decided to kill the messenger. “Find Jamie McDonald.”

Glenn blanched.

 

**2.13pm, suite 309, The Ritz**

There was a series of noises from the next room that sounded like someone kicking an expensive door open, then kicking off a pair of Italian leather shoes, then throwing a coat on the floor, then kicking the coat. Jamie liked to kick things. He was like a mule in that respect. In other respects too: his mother had probably had to cheat on her husband with a donkey for the end result to be such a magnificently horrible creature.

“Took you long enough,” said Malcolm, who was by now slumped like decadent royalty on the couch, wearing a bathrobe and his underwear and nothing else, and eating hula hoops by the fistful.

“Yeah, well, it’s not my fault that cunt at the department of economic development decided to split open and give birth to a great big fucking mutant baby of a scandal, is it? He’s given three aides Chlamydia and probably more from the blood spatter after I publicly remove his cock with printouts of the all the fucking blogs that just posted about him.”

Jamie cracked open a Tennants and gulped some down. “This stuff is fucking disgusting,” he said, sighing with satisfaction.

“It’s the bitter taste of childhood nostalgia,” said Malcolm.

 

**3pm, Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship**

“How can Jamie be on holiday as well?” said Terri, panic in her voice. “Isn’t there some kind of rule saying that one of them has to be on duty at all times, like the heirs to the throne in case one of them dies in a plane crash?”

 “I think we should just let Nicola’s husband clear up his own mess,” said Ollie. “He wasn’t even commenting on our department.”

“That’s rather callous,” said Glenn disapprovingly.

“The NHS is everyone’s department, especially when there’s a fuck-up,” said Terri.

“That would make a _delightful_ marketing slogan,” said Nicola from behind them.

“You’re here, thank god!” said Terri.

“That’s not something she hears very often,” Ollie muttered under his breath.

“Didn’t I say to call Jamie?”

“He’s taken the day off as well.”

 “Oh, bloody hell. They’re probably off sacrificing virgins to whatever demon owns the lease on their souls.”

“I don’t think Malcolm Tucker ever had a soul,” Glenn said gloomily.

 

**3pm, suite 309, The Ritz**

“Hurry the fuck up!”

“Is this the point where you realise you’ve turned into your dad?” wondered Malcolm. “Stop talking to the fucking television.”

“Shut it.”

Jamie knocked back some more cheap lager for the full effect as the camera panned around the stadium onscreen. “Fuckin’ Ibrox,” he muttered, and Malcolm grinned his psychotic grin.

Right now, they were watching grass grow. A football field’s worth of grass. In less than a minute, they would be experiencing the closest thing to religion either of them knew in their cold, stony hearts: an Old Firm match. It was the stuff of epic. The meeting of old enemies. Men kicking each other in the balls on the sidelines and eating extremely questionable pies. A complete absence of spin, civil servants or BlackBerries. Rangers. Celtic. _Football_.

 

**5.14pm, Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship.**

Glenn poked his head round her office door. “Looks like we won’t be needing Malcolm after all!” he said cheerfully. “Radio 2’s decided to switch the NHS feature for an interview with Jamie Cullum.”

“At least someone got their day off,” said Nicola bitterly, gazing into the dregs of her fifth Lemon Zinger of the afternoon. “Maybe he’ll be in a good mood tomorrow.”

 

**5.15pm, suite 309 The Ritz**

"Fucking _Celtic_."


End file.
